A Clockwork Lemon
by 02AngelBaby75
Summary: Alex raises his first child.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi there! This is my first ACO story, and I'm very nervous...I also tried my best at Nadsat! So this may be a little OOC, but I tried :) _

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><p><em>Lemon tree very pretty<br>And the lemon flower sweet  
>But the fruit of the poor lemon<br>Is impossible to eat_

**~Will Holt**

_The Lemon: Longevity, Purification, Love, Innocence _

* * *

><p>"What's it going be then, eh?"<p>

There was me, that is Alex, Your Humble Narrator, asking my new malenky devotchka what pishcha she wanted for dinner.

Welcome back. And yes, O brothers, Little Alex had grown up and he had fallen in love, bezoomnly in love.

I said I'd reform, and reform I shall.

Her eemya was Charlotte, a slovo that tasted like honey should I govoreet it. She stirred within me the deepest affections that I felt I could like not contain. She was the one devotchka who I had cared about and not how the old Alex, "cared," for anyone. She was like Pete's pitsa, sweet Georgina, someone you should look after. A queen, if you will.

But Bog had his own fate for myself. Charlotte and I were like never meant to be together, no. She never trusted me, poor ptitsa. She felt oozhassnly poogly over what I may do. She never realized I had indeed changed my old way of jeezny.

I tried. I promised to be the chelloveck I never was for my lovely Charlotte and Angel, who at the raz was still a newborn all like cranky and gromky. I got up early in the mornings and made her cups of the old chai, and the little one, I changed her diapers and fed her peas and such. I went out to work to line my pockets with pretty polly. But my zheena ookadetted anyway, leaving me with like nothing but a baby girl, hardly odin years young.

So now there was the dva of us, Little Alex and Little Angel, who was being a vonny spoog for her loving pee. Angel was a baddiwad, spoiled baby, a baby gurgling goo goo goo with all like moloko dribbling from her rot and looking up at me and like smecking at everybody in a cute baby goloss.

"Well, little one?" I skazzed again. Fagged she was, though. I could tell. Her guliver kept rolling to the side like she wanted to be spatting.

I messeled Angel wasn't hungry, just very fagged. I skorry sat her almost completely uneaten peas and macarroni and cheese far far away from her before she stuck her malenky fingers in there, grabbed a rookerful of pishcha, and flung it right into Your Humble Narrator's innocent litso. It's sloochated many a time, my brothers.

Her eemya was Angel, as I picked it for her. When she popped out of Charlotte she platched, making some stracky zvooks that had me wondering if she had gotten vred on the undoubtedly poogying way into the world.

She crarked something awful, o my brothers, until she was gently mestoed into her pee's waiting rockers. She immediately quit her platches. My devotcka was all nagoy and her flesh was like in all folds with being a very fat baby. She smiled beautifully with such tiny goobers. Her glazzies sparkled like Bog and all his holy angels and saints were like radiating within. That's when I knew she would be forever known as Angel, for that's just what she was.

I osooshied the smeared food off from around her rot. I worried she didn't eat all that was necessary for her to grow properly, but that was not up to me. Angel was lifted from under her pudgy rockers by me and we got ready to sleep, for it had been a long day.

I ruffled her blonde lucious glory, done up messel in a ponytail. She didn't smot at me, her glazzies were so droopy with sleepiness.

I got my job at that old music shop Melodia. This is when I brought Angel over to her baboochka's place. She had a real horrorshow time at Pee and Em's, baking cookies, peeting chashas of moloko, spatting and warbling. She wanted to be a warbler when she grew.

Pee and Em. We had something special together now; something the trio of us could honestly govoreet about. All tree of us were pees and ems. I suppose they have forgiven me, and they seem to like my devotchka's company... But forgiveness, in it's truest form, was not simple to come by.

The rabbit did not pay much, my friends, but I was grateful for some cutter as I could no longer crast what I wanted, which were items that seemed to change daily. From Ludwig Van to useless little things like magnets for the refrigerator and even a good, sweet bar of chocolate. So there I was, selling records of beautiful, beautiful music to take care of my little one. That was that.

At night I fillied Mozart to put Little Alex and Angel to spatchka. Little Alex obviously preferred dear, dear lovely Ludwig Van to a somewhat gloopy and not as talented Mr. Wolfgang going ugh ugh ugh on a piano. But whenever I tried Beethoven, Angel would always awaken creeching and in a vonny baddiwad mood. The exact same happened with Bach. So then Mozart it was, as Angel awoke real horrorshow on these days.

As I changed the tape from lovely Ludwig Van to Mozart, I said, "Didst thou know, O my sweet, that old Ludwig Van wrote this particular symphoniya when he was deaf?" Your Humble Narrator often govoreeted to her, even when he was aware she wasn't slooshying or couldn't understand. It made him feel much more bolshy about jeezny somehow.

I crawled under the blankets like with my sladky malenky odin, slooshing to my baby's bolshiest composer. My rockers were around her and holding her tight, feeling her tiny body snug against me. I loved her more than anything ever before, my friends. And I realized I didn't need Charolette. I was horrorshow on my oddy knocky, with the help of my choodessny Pee and Em. Though the thought of her name still pained me, friends.

Just as I began drifting into a beautiful land of the asleep, a real bolnoy feeling came over me, like I had during the Ludovico treatment,(which I still had not completely recovered from) when they tortured me with Ludwig Van, who never like hurt a single soul, damn them.

The truth settled down over me. I knew it all along and it really tolchock me this raz, my brothers. I glanced down at my lovely, perfect spatting devotchka. She slept away going _zzzzzzzzzzzzzz_ softly. I had done nothing, o brothers, in my entire existence, miserable as it was, to deserve my precious Angel. She needed and wanted me, this I knew. But I didn't deserve someone trusting me so much, o no.

I nearly got up for a glass of water, but Sir Mozart's Piano Sonata n.15 in F major, the hum of the night, the serenading crickets, and the way Angel was breathing all tolchocked me back to spatchka in no time. Nothing had Your Humble Narrator done to deserve what he has, o my brothers, and not a single odin of us will forget that. And yet, here she was.


	2. Chapter 2

_Lemon tree very pretty  
>And the lemon flower sweet<br>But the fruit of the poor lemon  
>Is impossible to eat<em>

**~Will Holt**

_The Lemon: Longevity, Purification, Love, Innocence _

* * *

><p>Your Humble Narrator, as well as his Pee and Em, figured that there was someveshch not rabbiting with his malenky devotchka.<p>

The twelfth of December was nearing, o my brothers, and Angel had not yet skazzed a single like intelligible slovo. She was almost one year starry and was beautiful as ever and blessed by Bog each day. But she was not able to govoreet, no.

Odin day, a lovely day away from dreaded rabbit, I held Angel on my lap and brushed out her lucious glory and put it up in a real horrorshow ponytail, is the term I believed nadsat ones were using these days. My tick tocker drooped to my guttiwuts as I like struggled to get her to skaz to me.

I said random words, not in the way of Nadsat, because I did not want her to speak how I did. Your Humble Narrator himself did not wish to speak it anymore, due to the memories, but some habits are difficult to kick, my brothers, as I am sure many know.

"Baby," I skazzed.

"Sun," I skazzed.

"Love."

"Hello."

"Snow," I govoreeted.

"Hair," sayith I, tugging gently on a loose strand. "This is your hair." Deep inside of my guttiwutts, I had a storm building, and I tried very hard to keep it down, as my lovely had not done a thing oozhassny.

Angel kept her gulliver bowed, acting as if I were not there. Her glazzies were blank, viddying at the floor, at like nothing.

"Angel," I tried. I tapped her knee. "Angel." She knew that was her eeyma, or so I hoped.

My goloss cracking, I said quietly, so only her and I could slooshy, "Daddy."

She replied none.

I sat her on the floor beside her teddy bear, angry at myself for not noticing she had a problem sooner. It was in Bog's rookers now, I suppose.

I lay on my bed on my back and watched the lewdies passing out the okno. How sad all of them must be, how miserable. Sometimes I sincerely wished I could help them. Little Alex really has changed, my friends, and every day I try my best to help and be kind to society, I really try my bolshiest.

Quite suddenly my ptitsa smotted next to me, clutching her teddy whom I called Charolette, after her Em.

"What do you want?"

"D-daddy," I believe I slooshied, and even now, years from that moment, that was the sweetest slovo ever heard spoken.

If I had been holding an actual spoon, I knew I would have surely dropped it. Indeed, I wasn't sure if I had heard Little Angel. "What- did you say?"

My devotchka smiled up at me and repeated: "Daddy."

Very well, I couldn't believe it. Perhaps my ookoes were not right today. "Here, my love." I reached down and pulled her into my rockers, suddenly feeling a strange numbness all over. "Angel," I said and I took her so very malenky rooker in mine.

"D-daddy," she skazzed. She put her litso close to my own. Close enough I was able to smell her graham cracker breath.

"Praise God!" I smecked. Somevesch happened then, unlike anyvesch else little Angel and Alex like ever had. Us dva were govoreeters of the language of English, and, one day maybe, Nadsat, but I would try to not let that become.

I lubbilubed her knuckles and then the top of her gulliver and her beautiful chubby litso, her morder.

"Bless you," I said to her, getting to my nogas. "Bless us."

"Daddy!" little sweet Angel said with like another smile.

Little Alex, he cursed himself as his Pee and Em were not there for the moment. He felt an overwhelming need to tell someplott.

When we arrived at Pee and Em's door, I just about gave up and went back domy, with the breath from my rot coming out all fog-like, it being such a cold nochy, and they were shvatty so long. Finally Pee showed up, and it was apparent Bog was smottovat after him. He smiled his old smile at Angel and I, taking a step outside, closer.

"Daddy," Angel announced, glowing with radosty. She hasn't stopped it with this slovo yet, my brothers. She seemed happy but was bezoomnly shivering, as I.

Pee was soon like with Em, and was saying over and over how this was impossible, impossible, impossible.

Em shvatted Angel from my grip and hugged her and nachinated blubing. Pee soon had his rockers around my two dear devotchkas. Em was platching her guttiwits out, getting Angel's own litso wet in some places while she continued her one word rant.

After a while I had my girl back and I bided my Pee and Em farewell. When I closed the door I still could slooshy Em's tears.

Your Humble Narrator and his baby stood out in the cold in front of Em's and Pee's domy for a long while, tangled in each other's rockers and I was horning and smecking and lubbilubbing my devotchka. "Daddy," she droned on, and to my ookoes this single word was almost like Bog and all his angels were swooping down and gracing us real horrorshow like, tying our tick tockers and bones together so we wouldn't come undone.


	3. Chapter 3

_Lemon tree very pretty  
>And the lemon flower sweet<br>But the fruit of the poor lemon  
>Is impossible to eat<em>

**~Will Holt**

_The Lemon: Longevity, Purification, Love, Innocence_

* * *

><p>My devotchka was getting starry. She was going on three years now.<p>

We were goolying about town, dressed in the heighth of fashion, which in those days was these very wide trousers and a very loose black shiny leather like jerkin over an open-necked shirt with a like scarf tucked in. At this time too it was the heighth of fashion for nadsat ones to have long hair and wear malenky dresses just above their knees, with ruffles and flowers and embroideries of cats and dogs and sunshines. Angel's hair had never been shive and it grew so long she could sit on the merzky blonde stuff.

Cutter wasn't coming in often as Your Humble Narrator was not rabbiting often. He was fagged, more so than he had ever been. Angel was much more high-maintenance than a regular malenky devotchka should be. And I eventually put together this was because, as mentioned, sweet Angel's luscious glory was too damn long. It shvatted forever and a day to comb out.

So Little Alex took it upon to himself shive it for her. I didn't ask her if she wanted this-I was certain she would answer no.

I sat her sharries down on a chair and gave her some crackers to munch on while I went about my rabbit. I had never been one much inclined to the styling of one's hair, as anyone could tell rather obviously. Mine was nothing more than a blonde mass resembling a mop sitting atop my gulliver. It appeared both of outs grew

"What?" she skazzed, curiously glancing at the scissors in my rooker.

My devotchka had learned many slovoees since the blessed day she first govoreeted. I've always had faith in her, I have, I have. She's what they call like a, "Late bloomer," or some cal like that.

"This is what." I skvatted a fistful of her hair and held it in her litso, making her glazzies cross. "It's razz-" I corrected myself, brothers, "time it went away for good. Back to the stinking depths of-"

Angel screeched. And did so many a more time during the process, but Little Alex was beyond used to the gloopy screams and whines, they no longer deterred him. Had he not spent countless nights slooshying to her platches, bitvaing to keep awake?

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><p>For days after, all that was govoreeted about between the two of us was her snuffed-or, excuse me, my brothers, her <em>dead<em>hair. No matter the attempts I diligently made to prove otherwise, that what was not alive to nachinat with, Little Angel was horribly nadmenny. What she believed was law and that was that. I was left on my oddy-knocky to believe what I did, and my devotchka what she did. Three years nadsat and she was already more shoomy than her Em.

Ah, Charolette. Just the messel of her lovely eeyma made me shiver with emotions I like could not describe now, nor ever. If my devotchka was an angel, Charlotte was the Em of all angels created. It would always be shilarny for where she may be. After all, not all of the malchicks in this land have changed as I have. Then a horrorshow feeling of happiness, for if not for her, I would be more alone than ever, without my malenky devotchka. Always these two were followed by a sadness that skvatted my tick-toker and crushed it with strength even I did not know I possessed.

Angel and I sat together, munching on chocolate cake my dear old Pee and Em had delivered earlier that day. Though I hated to skaz it, it was not the bolshiest cake I had ever tasted, but I had no right to say so.

Angel, through a rotfull of the chocolaty stuff, told me she wanted to play opposites. It was an eegra we had invented some time ago, when she was just learning how to govoreet.

"Cake," sayith my girl, in her funny way of speaking without hardly moving her goobers. Perhaps my slooshying had not left me.

For the life of me, I could not messel of anything that would hold the opposite meaning of cake. "Happy," I skazzed instead.

"Sad," Angel said. She didn't have the most zammechat memory…Cake was flown out the okno. So we went on this way until the late hours of the nochy, and she had fallen skorry, skorry asleep, her little gulliver resting on Your Humble Narrator's noga.

Little Alex placed his rooker on her forehead and pushed her blonde hair back over and over. It was all that was left of my starry zheena. All else belonged to me. Blue glazzies. Even the same-shaped morder, which never ceased to make me smile like a gloopy nazz. Too young, too, too young. That's what she viddied. The reality that Angel would be coming out of her any day was pooglying enough to send her away, even after she had held her devotchka in her rockers, bouncing her to sleep.

How would I ever be able to explain to my dear than her Em did not wish to be with her? That she would give a stracky cringe when holding her, always passing her off to her Pee? That she had vidded right at him and skazzed, _I can't do this. I can't keep her_?

I shook my gulliver, as if ridding myself of any unpleasant messels.

_Three_. Three was a nadsat age, o my friends, an interessovatting, nadsat age where not much mattered just yet. Such matters wouldn't come to rassoodock until they had to, when no choices were ookadetted.


	4. Chapter 4

_Lemon tree very pretty_  
><em>And the lemon flower sweet<em>  
><em>But the fruit of the poor lemon<em>  
><em>Is impossible to eat<em>

**~Will Holt**

_The Lemon: Longevity, Purification, Love, Innocence_

* * *

><p>There was a park, if I remember correctly, that was 396 steps away from Angel and I's domy, on days where I was feeling quite horrorshow and not terribly guilt-ridden, enough that I could go do old rabbit.<p>

These days were also baddiwad in their own ways, however. Nothing in jeezny could ever be perfect. My ptitsa was on the very verge of horning whenever Pee and Em came to take her away from me for but a few hours. Many a time I stayed with her rather than head off to make cutter even if we were cluvedand and needed it. Her watering glazzies nearly snuffed me. Who knew of all the baddiwad, truly stracky things Little Alex had done in the past, and a ptitsa was making him do whatever she pleased. I was at the absolute mercy of a malenky one.

As I was skazating earlier, my friends, there was this lovely little park 396 steps from our humble abode. I was never one for mathematics, for a D in this certain skill is what I had concluded skolliwoll with. When it came to such messeling I was very gloopy indeed. Some days Little Angel was unusually silent with a finger in the corner of her rot, and these were the razes I would count all the nogafalls and if I know how to rightly average a set of numbers out, it came to 396.

At the park there was this swing, a starry, rickety veshch painted a dark shade of blue. Despite all the other amusements for my very own devotchka, nothing else seemed the slightest bit interessovatting in her rassoodock but that odin swing. Which of course made me miss and sneety about my sharp Charlotte. And maybe she was missing me, also.

The first sign of her came on a horrorshow day Angel and I were having together. There had been no platches or any razdrazled moments. She had spent all day at her baboochka's, where she drew a messy but zammechat picture of Your Humble Narrator in crayon, sitting on a rainbow like with a flower growing next to him. Talent, this one had.

What firstly comes to rassoodock when I think of Angel, would be _independence_. Thus I was not shvated by surprise when she wished to crawl onto the thing without any assistance from her dear Pee. _Poor me_, I messel to myself, shaking my gulliver in sadness. _How skorry_ (quickly, I remind myself) _they grow_.

As she struggled away, even after I had smiled, "Care for some help, little one?" and she very rudely refused with an indignant squeak, I happened to notice a tiny pair of bright pink rubber boots sitting underneath the tree I used to spend some raz climbing if Angel had been spatting. She barely ever became fagged, meaning Little Alex was doing much, much worse…

For a little while I ignored them, until I could no longer. They were almost creeching at me to come and take a smot, and since Angel appeared just horrorshow swinging away and as long as she did not decide to itty off on poor old me, I felt I was able to take my glazzies off my malenky odin for but a moment.

The boots were, as mentioned, a bright pink colour I found most unattractive. What kind of chepooka was this anyhow? Who in bloody hell would leave such-

Then I stopped, for tucked under the right book was a malenky piece of paper, neatly folded into four squares. There was only but one chelloveck I could speak of who was so unbearably particular and that was my zheena, my love, Charlotte. If I had been Alex earlier, it must not shock you, O my brothers, that I would not messel twice about _her_. _But perhaps she was still here somewhere about, perhaps she still remembered us_…Such thoughts swirled around before I could stop them.

Without thinking even once, the note was in my rockers and I all but tore it open.

_To Angel and Alex_

Her writing was like perfect, nothing short of perfect, written in blue pen. Later that day when Angel and I tried on the boots, they were, unfortunately, at least dva sizes too bolshy, but Your Humble Narrartor was certain she would grow into them soon.


	5. Chapter 5

_Lemon tree very pretty  
>And the lemon flower sweet<br>But the fruit of the poor lemon  
>Is impossible to eat<em>

**~Will Holt**  
><em><br>The Lemon: Longevity, Purification, Love, Innocence_

* * *

><p>Curiosity got the best of Little Alex, as it always had and always will, come to time indefinite. And oh my, my, my. The things that old devotchka would leave for my Angel. Boots, a bracelet that slid right off her malenky hand, rubber ducks (which I threw in the trash as quickly as humanly possible, as they stared at me with certain malicious intentions), and even some flowery stickers and the fancy things small ones put in their luscious glory to make a statement.<p>

Soon every krovvy day we took the 396 steps to see what dorogoy treasures were waiting at the base of the starry, fat tree. Not every day was there a present, and on such days as these, Little Angel would glance up at me with the most dazzling, horrorshow, stunningly beautiful glazzies and say, "My mama forgot me."

_Oh, those words_. Those words made me mad. They made me terribly mad.

I would itty back to our home with her after the usual swing, holding her very close to my tik-toker as if this would keep her safe from all the nadmenny and disgusting fellows of the world. At moments, I would viddy very, very far ahead of myself; see Angel in a white dress, leaving me alone once more. The ptitsa had not nachinated going to skolliwoll yet, and I was already picturing myself with one foot in the grave, an old man.

I hoped very much I would not be a grumpy old moodge, snapping at the nadsat ones. "Get off of me sodding lawn, you gloopy punks!"

"When I was a kid…!"

"Bloody hell, leave me be!"

My own Pee was not what you would be soon to call a grumpy, gloopy moodge, but he most certainly has his unhappy moments. But don't we all?

"Your Mama has not forgotten about you at all," I skazzed very seriously, because I really had no idea as to what was true and what was not true these blasted days. Our Charlotte must have cared, at least a malenky bit, to spend all this raz sending us lovely gifts.

Perhaps she is afraid to just come on out and say it, I want to tell Little Angel. But what would there be for Charlotte to be so spoogly about? Was she frightened of Your Humble Narrator, my friends, or of what may be his unwelcoming greeting? One may not messel I would ever not want her back, but lately I have been having my doubts, O brothers.

* * *

><p>On one such day where I stayed domy and away from the dreaded rabbit, Angel and I sat outside on the green grass and munched on cheese and crackers. While I myself preferred the salty type of crackers, Angel was beyond happy with her graham crackers. That is all she ever vonnied of, either graham cookies or waxy crayons. No matter the amount of soap I used to scrub it out, it always bloody stayed on the skin of her plott. By now, I was used to it and would not have it any other way. Crayons and crackers were my dva sladky vons.<p>

After an eegra of Opposites, Angel wanted a raskazz. Very carefully I osooshied some crumbs from around her rot and asked, "And what would that be about, my dear?"

"An elephant," she mumbled, for she was a touchy, irritable thing, "and Mama."

Never had Little Alex slooshied such an idea from my ptitsa, and the odin thing that came to my rassoodock from those words made me feel quite ashamed, in fact. I held back a smeck, beginning, "Once upon a time, there was a great, fat elephant called Alex. He loved eggiweggs."

"So do I!" Angel interrupted.

With a scowl, I _shooshed_ her and pressed onward. "And one day, this eggiwegg he was about to eat started gov-talking to him, saying, 'Please do not eat me, sir! I am a kind, good eggiwegg, pure of heart…But dim of wit.'"

By now I was not absolute Angel understood my slovoees, but oh well, my brothers, that's jeezny."And Alex said, 'Fine. I will not eat you. But I am a lonely elephant, so to prove you are a good eggiwegg, you must marry me.'"

The words, 'Marry me,' made my little one giggle and hide her litso from me, as if it were something dirty.

"So Alex and the eggiwegg, Charlotte, were married, on a warm, fresh day in July," I went on, which was actually true. _And he stomped on her while she was asleep, and then ate her up._ Your Humble Narrator nearly skazzed with like a ridiculous grin, but I stopped myself, because that would upset poor Little Angel. "And they lived together very happily in New Orleans, in America, where they had a nanny, four dogs, a kitty cat, and one little baby named Angel."

"That's-that's_ my_ name!"

I poked her adorable morder. "Yes, it is."

"Can we have eggiweggs for supper?" she asked in a whisper, almost like she was worried a _no_ would be the answer.

"Righty right," I tell her. "Eggiweggs it is, then."


End file.
